bit shocking to admit
from this perch
where I sit among
the torrents of today
that I am not jealous
of the freedom of water
to flow and change
shape and ride
gravity with ease—
or of light
to trade its weight
for the twin eternities
of everlasting present
and neverending speed;
rather, I am jealous
of the freedom of trees
to grow slow
and carefully
into their positions,
and then, to just maintain
their balance—
to hold fast
to that erstwhile,
hard-won shape—
in brief: to simply
stubbornly stay
in one blissful
place for the rest
of their eternity.
